Chaos Theory
by WhyAye
Summary: No physical pain, bodily fluids, or hangovers this time, just a little fluff, a warm fuzzy for the guys. Seems a bit dull without the usual pain and distress, but maybe that's just me. Like it? Hate it? Let me know.
1. Chapter 1

Detective Sergeant James Hathaway peered more closely at his computer screen. He was having a difficult time concentrating because of the various throat clearings, sniffles, coughs, and other sounds of illness emanating from the other side of the office. He finally resigned himself to getting something else done. Hathaway picked up a stack of forms and reached for a pen. But the cup that should have been holding several was empty. Instead, a few pens were scattered across his desk. Six more were strewn across the desk of his partner and office-mate, Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis.

It peeved Hathaway that something as simple as putting things back where they belonged seemed to elude the senior officer.

"Sir, have you been borrowing my pens again?"

"Sorry, Hathaway. I didn't realize there were 'your' pens and 'my' pens. In my ignorance, I thought there were only 'our' pens." He scooped up most of the ones on his desk and dropped them into the cup.

Hathaway was horrified. "Sir, I am not interested in contracting whatever virus or bacterium you are entertaining these days." He dabbed his fingers with the hand sanitizer sitting on his desk, applied more to a tissue, and proceeded to wipe down the newly-returned pens, as well as those he picked up from his own desk.

"It's just a cold. And I'm almost over it."

"When I'm concentrating on a case, I find it very distracting to have to hunt for something to write with."

"Sorry." Lewis made a face when Hathaway wasn't looking. "You need to learn how to tolerate a little disorder in your life, Hathaway."

"While I recognize that you have considerable expertise in disorder, Sir, I must respectfully disagree. I don't think there's a need for any more of it in my life than I already endure."

Lewis had to smile to himself. Having raised two children and shared his home with at least one other person for nearly all his adult life, he knew the value of adaptability. And he recognized that it was something his sergeant sorely lacked.

"Not keen on surprises, then?"

"It's not a moral shortcoming, as you seem to imply."

"No, no. Only, I'll have to cancel the stripper I booked for your next birthday party."

Alarm flooded Hathaway's face for a second before he realized Lewis was grinning fiendishly at him. "Very funny, Sir. Anyway, I'm not sure you'll be invited."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

The next day began with the announcement that the long-awaited system upgrade had been installed overnight and station employees should expect to see some changes in the appearance and functionality of all computer operations. Training sessions were announced for that afternoon and over the next several days.

James had already been struggling with the new system for almost an hour by the time Lewis arrived and logged on.

Fifteen minutes later: "Oh, aye, this is much faster. I like that."

"But what happened to all the things I had on here? My bookmarks, history, cookies? I can't find anything!" Hathaway's frustration was clear.

Lewis blew his nose loudly. "Here, I'll show you what happened to the bookmarks. I just happened to find mine when I was trying to change the type size." He approached Hathaway's workstation, looking for all the world to James like an ambulatory germ factory.

"No! I mean, no thanks, I'll learn more if I figure it out myself."

"Ah, loosen up a little! Adaptability, Hathaway. It's what sets us apart from the animals. Except the rat. And the roach. And the virus."

"Well, you may see the roach as a standard to strive for, Sir, but I prefer loftier aspirations. And viruses aren't animals."

Lewis just smirked. "You know what you need, Hathaway? You need something unpredictable in your life. Having to raise a couple of kids does that pretty nicely. Know any you can borrow for a couple months?"

"Some people might argue that I'm too immature to raise children."

Lewis snorted at that, setting off a coughing fit that took him several minutes to control. "Hathaway, if anyone was ever prematurely middle-aged, it's you."

"Well, then, I'm too old to raise children."

"The thing is, Hathaway, your home life is too perfectly under control. No one moves your stuff, no one changes the television channel, no one eats that last piece of chicken you figured on for your dinner. That's an artificial little world, man. Chaos is normal.

"Fighting the forces of chaos is my personal challenge, and so far I'm winning."

The older man just shook his head. "I imagine that the thing that attracted you to this career path was the 'order' part of 'law and order,' as opposed to the fact that this is a high-risk profession, fraught with dangerous nutters at every turn."

"What's wrong with order?"

"It's unnatural. And it's boring. Chaos will win in the end. And only those who can deal with it calmly will survive."

"So apocalyptic, Sir."

Lewis blew his nose again. "Just concerned about your long-term survival, Sergeant."

"As I am about your short-term survival, Inspector."

* * *

That evening, Hathaway sat sipping his wine and considering Lewis's words. He wasn't _that_ predictable, was he? He could be spontaneous, such as when they decided to go for a drink after work. And the work itself required spontaneity—calls could come in at any time, forcing him to drop whatever he was doing and go to the crime scene. After all, who needed to invite chaos? It came anyway. Intentionally breaking from an established routine that was working well was just asking for unnecessary complications. James was quite happy to live without those.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

But the idea that he was predictable to the point of being dull nagged at him the rest of the week. By Saturday morning, Hathaway resolved to find a somewhat controlled way to introduce a bit of chaos into his life. Or at least a little unpredictability. He went for a long run along the towpath. A run was always a good time to think, and the straight towpath, his usual route for a long run, would present him with no distractions.

He had just passed the locks by The Trout when his ears picked up a strange sound. A weak crying, almost like a baby, or a mewing cat. He stopped and scanned the area, but saw nothing unusual. Then he heard the sound again, on his left side, away from the canal. He approached the underbrush, parting the overgrown grass, and saw a somewhat scruffy, white cat. Its head was stuck inside a tin. The cat did not seem to be struggling much; it just sat, pawing at the tin a little, occasionally mewing.

It was obvious the poor creature was in desperate need of help. Although he was not particularly fond of cats, or any animal for that matter, Hathaway easily pitied the helpless creature and felt an obligation to do for it what he could. Warily, James came near the poor thing, speaking softly, and when it didn't react, he clasped it under the forelegs with a strong grasp. The cat did not struggle as he had feared. Instead, it went limp. Relieved that he wasn't fighting sharp claws, and rather concerned that the animal had simply given up, James tried to pull the tin off, but it was stuck fast and he didn't want to injure the cat's neck or ears.

He tucked the cat under his arm and jogged back to his flat. He grabbed his keys, a towel, and his wallet, then he laid the cat on the passenger seat of his car on top of the towel and sped to the veterinarian clinic at the top of the next street over.

He waited rather anxiously while the clinic staff worked on the cat. Eventually, the fresh-faced veterinarian came out from the back of the clinic.

"Mister Hathaway?" she asked. He stood up and followed her to an examination room.

The cat was crouched in the center of the stainless steel table, clearly uncomfortable and on edge. The tin had been removed, but the cat bore several bloody scratches around its ears. It looked at him with squinty, narrowed eyes. Hathaway was surprised to see that one of its eyes was a brilliant blue and the other a clear, crystalline green.

The veterinarian held out her hand. "I'm Doctor Ashton." She seemed young, James thought—younger than himself—and quite small, but with a wiry build that would allow her to outpower all but the largest dogs. "She's a little dehydrated, but surprisingly calm considering what she's been through. There are some scratches here—" Dr. Ashton pointed to the angry red welts behind the cat's ears. "I'm afraid there was no way to get the tin off without pulling a bit." She stroked the cat along its back and when her hand reached the tail, the cat's hind legs straightened and her back end rose considerably above her shoulders.

Dr. Ashton continued. "She's a really nice cat, isn't she? I'm going to prescribe a topical antibiotic; just rub it over those scratches twice a day and you won't have to worry about infection. And don't let her outside at least until these are healed. Now, is she up to date on her vaccinations?"

Hathaway finally confessed that the cat wasn't his, he had only found it in this desperate state. "I can't take it back home. It's not mine and I don't have any way of taking care of a cat."

Dr. Ashton gave him a funny look. "There's no one else to care for her until you find the owner. She's not critical, so she doesn't need to stay here and it would only add to her distress. All you have to do is feed her, put the antibiotic on her, and give her a litterbox until her owner is found. It's not hard." She looked as if she considered the possibility that Hathaway was a bit of a simpleton. "If you don't think you're capable of that, of course . . ."

"No, I can do it, I just want to be clear I'm not the proper owner." Hathaway couldn't figure if he was doing this to prove something to her. Or possibly to Lewis. And anyway, wasn't he looking for a way to add a little spontaneity to his life? "I mean, she seems like a nice cat, she must belong to _somebody_."

Dr. Ashton smiled warmly. "You're a good person, Mister Hathaway. Let me know if you need any more help with . . ." she looked at him curiously. "What name are we putting for this cat?"

No question there. The slanted, beautiful eyes and feline grace. The way the animal insinuated itself—_herself_—into James's life and would likely just as easily abandon him made only one name truly appropriate in his view.

"Fiona."

One last question occurred to him. "How do I train her to use the litterbox?"

Dr. Ashton smiled. "No need to train her. Just put it where she can find it. She'll know what to do."

Hathaway arrived home not too long afterward, having made a detour to purchase the equipment and supplies he lacked. Dr. Ashton had secured Fiona in a cardboard box, which he now set in the middle of the floor and cautiously opened.

The cat crouched in one corner of the box, trying to make herself as small as possible. Hathaway perched on the edge of the sofa and waited.

Two hours later, he was semi-reclined, reading, his glass of wine half gone. A small dish of cat food sat on the floor next to the box, untouched. A soft sound of movement from within the box caught James's attention. He watched as Fiona slithered over the side of the box and scurried, belly to the ground, under a large chair.

_Fine. Don't know why I let myself get conned into bringing you home in the first place. I don't even like cats, especially_.

James reminded himself that he was just caretaking until the real owner was found. Still, he had to admit that his feelings were just a tiny bit hurt by the ingratitude shown toward his efforts.

The cat had not come out by the time Hathaway went to bed. Concerned that she would not find the litterbox, he put it right next to the chair. He folded a soft towel and put it in the cardboard box, hoping she would find that a comfortable bed.

"Well, goodnight, Fiona. Tomorrow we'll put up some signs and try to find your owner."

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

He awoke during the middle of the night when the bed started to shake rhythmically. Hathaway peered around and found the movement was caused by Fiona, sitting on her rump on the bed, thoroughly washing herself with her tongue. He watched for a while but eventually fell back asleep. She kept working.

A few hours later, he stirred again. A warm weight was pressed against his chest. He put his hand to it and found soft fur. When he touched her, Fiona emitted a small chirp that sounded like _Prrt?_ The sound made Hathaway smile and he stroked the cat a few times before settling back to sleep.

In the morning, he awoke to find her gone. He dressed in jeans and a navy crew-neck jumper, and entered the front room. Fiona was sprawled on the carpet in a patch of sunshine, watching him with her blue and green mismatched eyes.

"Good morning, Fiona. Feeling better?"

She just stared at him. She certainly _looked_ better. Where the day before she had a dingy and unkempt cast to her coat, today she was glossy and bright, her fur shining white in the sun.

James headed for the kitchen. But halfway there, he saw he had made at least one error in judgment. Not sure how much litter to put in, he had nearly filled the pan, which he now saw was a mistake. She had scraped and carved it into hills and valleys, and it looked like most of the hills spilled out onto the floor. Litter was everywhere.

Groaning, he got a broom and dustpan and thoroughly swept the whole room. And the kitchen as well, when he found she had tracked it there, too. _Ugh. Better get started on those signs._

She came running when she heard him refill her food dish. As he worked, she wove herself between his legs, chirping as she had done during the night when he touched her.

"I'm not fooled, little Miss. I know it's the food you want." But he smiled as he said it.

He sat at the table, drafting the "Cat Found" signs. Despite his competence with computers, he had an old-fashioned liking for drafting his outline with pencil and paper.

Fiona sprang to the tabletop, startling him so he nearly upset his mug of tea. She batted at the two extra pencils lying there, knocking them to the floor.

"Hey."

Then she went crazy, sending the pencils skittering away and chasing wildly after them. She barreled around the room, crashing into furniture and almost overturning a lamp.

"_Hey!_"

He jumped up and beat her to one of the pencils, but the other she managed to bat under the sofa, where neither of them could get it. She crouched, staring at it, willing it to come out on its own.

Without further distraction, Hathaway finished his draft and powered up the computer. He set to work creating his document.

After he had typed in most of the text, Hathaway's concentration was interrupted by mysterious noises from the bedroom, a clunk and sliding sounds. He saved his work, got up, and went over to see what was going on. He found Fiona on the floor, playing soccer with his watch, which had been on the dresser.

"Hey, no! Give me that, it's not a toy." Recovering the watch, he tucked it into the top drawer after checking to make sure it was not damaged. He returned to the computer.

A few minutes later, he heard more strange noises, this time coming from the bathroom. There he discovered the cat playing with the roll of toilet paper. Little shreds were everywhere.

"Would you stop getting into things you shouldn't? Look at this mess!" Fiona looked up at him with a little _Prrt?_ Hathaway got the broom and dustpan and swept it all up, swatting at Fiona every few seconds to chase her away from the bits he had swept together. "Now quit it, I have to get this done."

As he typed, he muttered to himself. "'Found: white cat with green and blue eyes. Female, short-haired. Found on Saturday along the towpath near The Trout.' Guess I'll just put my mobile number_. I'll be adding 'Generous Reward Offered,' if you keep it up, Fiona_." He raised his voice at the last bit, as Fiona found a bit of wadded-up paper on the floor and commenced knocking it all around the flat.

When she was holding fairly still, Hathaway took her picture with his mobile for the sign. He just had to decide where to place the photo and how large to make it when Fiona jumped up on his lap, turned around and settled down, closing her eyes. She immediately started to make a quiet, rumbling sound that James realized was purring.

Hathaway melted, thoroughly charmed. Although he finished the sign within minutes and printed out ten copies, he ended up sitting at the computer for over an hour, doing whatever else he could online to entertain himself. Eventually, he realized she might sleep for hours and he hadn't had any lunch. With a quiet _Sorry!_ he scooped her up and set her back on the chair, but she sprang up and followed him into the kitchen. She watched from the corner while he sliced some cheese, buttered two pieces of bread, and added a bunch of grapes to his plate. He was deciding whether it was too early to open a beer when his mobile rang. He sprinted back to the computer where he had left it.

"Mister Hathaway? It's Doctor Ashton. I was just wondering how you and Fiona were getting on. Are you able to get the antibiotic on her?"

"Oh, hi, Doctor. Yeah, she's doing great. It's a bit of an adjustment for both of us, I think, but so far we're getting on alright. She doesn't seem to mind the ointment much as long as I don't use too much. I've just made some signs to post, hoping her owner is out looking for her."

After ringing off, he returned to the kitchen to collect his lunch. Fiona was nowhere in sight. He picked up the plate and did a double-take: _the cheese was gone_.

"Hey, Fiona! Where'd you go, you little thief?"

But she had somehow turned invisible, and for all his hunting, Hathaway could find neither her nor the missing cheese.

After he ate (more cheese, eaten immediately after slicing!), he walked around the neighborhood, posting signs where he could. He had no idea how far the cat might have traveled, and tried to cover as wide an area as possible.

When he got back, he was greeted with a _Prrt?_ and an affectionate rub on the legs. Then she unexpectedly dove at his shoelaces, and he tripped over the furry attacker, pitching forward and barely catching himself on the back of the chair. She was relentless, and he had to take his shoes off and shove them in the closet for their own safety. For the next hour, she stalked around the closed door of the closet, searching for a weakness, but to no avail.

That evening, while Hathaway sat and read, sipping a glass of wine, Fiona again jumped up and curled in his lap, purring softly while he absently stroked her fur. And after he went to bed, she once more pressed her warmth against him while he slept. Hathaway found he had slept more soundly that night than any within his recent memory. Graciously, he credited Fiona with that achievement.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Monday morning, Hathaway spent a good fifteen minutes with the lint brush, removing all the white cat hairs from his trousers. At work, Lewis was still sniffling, sucking on cough drops, and making all the same, distracting, sickness sounds he had made the week before.

"I thought you were almost over that cold, Sir."

"Yeah, it's going." A bit defensive. Hathaway bit his tongue and resisted a lecture on how to fight infections.

When Hathaway got home that evening, Fiona was right at the door, with her usual chirp. He bent down and petted her head, checking to see how the scratches were healing. They looked pretty good.

"You're a nice little cat, aren't you? Want some dinner?" He filled her dish, got himself a glass of wine, and went to relax in the front room. First, he headed for the bedroom to hang up his jacket and tie. It was then he noticed little scraps of paper all over the floor in the hallway. She had destroyed the toilet paper again.

There was little about the cat that was predictable. Sometimes she flew around the flat like a tiny dervish, whirling, galloping, her dainty feet sounding like clattering hooves. Other times, she could sleep for hours, and was an embodiment of the word, "Relaxed."

It was those times when she was most able to surprise him. Though she looked asleep, when his back was turned she would steal food from a plate he had left unattended or suddenly appear, as if transported by magic, in the chair where Hathaway was just about to sit.

She rearranged anything left lying out. Socks showed up in the kitchen, pencils were stashed under the sofa, paper wads accumulated in his shoes, wine-bottle corks ended up in the bathroom. Hathaway was amazed at how he had taken for granted the order he used to have in his life.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

By Thursday, Hathaway and Fiona had established a few little routines. He had learned the toilet paper would be spared as long as he left paper wads and corks out for her to play with during the day. He enjoyed the way she greeted him with her chirp when he came home from work and sat on his lap in the evenings. At night, her soft warmth was comforting, like sleeping with a furry hot water bottle.

But Hathaway was running late that morning, having spent ten minutes on his knees digging at least four paper wads out from under the sofa. Still, he managed to arrive at work before Lewis. He hastily logged on and started conducting online research on what were the best cat toys. When he heard Lewis greet another officer out in the corridor, he quickly closed that screen and opened the report he had been working on the day before.

Shortly before lunch, Hathaway noticed Lewis muttering under his breath as he worked at his computer.

"Anything wrong, Sir?"

"This stupid computer has gone and lost all me files from last month! I can't find _any_ of them. It's this new system, isn't it?"

Hathaway got up and came around the desk to see if he could help. "May I?"

"Sure. If I can't find them, I'm just going to make you redo them, anyway." Lewis got up and moved out of the way, sitting on the corner of his desk.

Hathaway clicked various menus and tabs for some time. At last, he was triumphant. "There you go. They got renamed somehow and put in this 'Records' folder."

"Oh, thanks, Sergeant." Then, with a raised eyebrow, "So, how was she last night?"

"What? How was _who_?" Hathaway was thoroughly puzzled.

"Well, I'm thinking you must have spent the night at someone else's house. That looks like animal hair all over your trousers. Not like you to go out looking like a pet owner. Whoever she was, she must have offered some serious distraction."

Hathaway realized he'd forgotten to apply the lint brush that morning after rooting around under the sofa.

"Well?"

Hathaway exhaled deeply. Time to confess. "I wasn't at anyone else's house. I have to admit I have someone living with me temporarily and, yes, she _does_ offer some serious distraction."

Lewis's mouth fell open. "_Living_ with you? I didn't know you'd met anyone you were that serious about."

"Oh, well, I suppose you don't know everything about my personal life, do you?" Hathaway flicked on his mobile and thumbed to the picture he'd taken of Fiona. "Inspector Lewis, meet Fiona."

Lewis stared at the picture, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "Hathaway, man, that's _perfect_! It's just what you need. How long have you had her?" He peered at the photograph. "Are those . . . are her eyes two different colors?"

James related the story of how he had found the cat in dire need and rescued her. And he found himself describing her habits, the way she chirped, played, washed herself, sat on his lap in the evenings, and slept by him at night.

Lewis's grin got even bigger. "You're in love, aren't you?"

Hathaway had to laugh. "I guess so. She's a real nuisance at times, but it's been a lot of fun. Why don't you come over this weekend and meet her?"

Lewis noticed when James got back to work at his desk, the hand sanitizer went untouched. Yes, this was exactly what James needed.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

On Saturday, Lewis showed up around ten in the morning. Fiona was dozing in the sunshine, a model of serenity and quiet grace. Lewis pulled a lightweight, practice golf ball out of his pocket.

"Here, Fiona, I brought you this." He flicked it across the room. She raised her head to watch it roll, then looked away.

Hathaway could tell Lewis was a little miffed. "She won't give you the satisfaction, Sir. But let's have some tea and when we're not looking she'll be after it."

He was right. As they got the tea ready in the kitchen, they could hear her clattering about the flat with the ball, and they peeked around the corner to watch her antics. Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis stole a glance at Hathaway, and smiled inwardly at the delight plain on the younger man's face.

By the time they were done with their tea, Fiona had settled down. Hathaway shook his head. "It's probably under the sofa by now. She's good at getting all her favorite toys stuck under there. Then, as her servant, I have to fish them out."

"Well, I'm sure she'll give you high marks on your employment review. Probably better than what you'll get from me. You never get stuff out from under the sofa for _me_, and I'm farther from the floor than she is."

"She has cleaner habits than you, Sir. There's no telling what's under your sofa and I'm not going to reach in blindly."

"Can't argue with that."

By six o'clock, Lewis had put in several hours cleaning the front room of his flat, inspired by Fiona's good example of cleanliness. Plus, it had occurred to him what a disaster it would be if he was ever required to bring home an unexpected, furry guest. He had to smile every time he thought about the look on Hathaway's face when he watched the cat. It might be nice to have a furry, little companion.

Hathaway, meanwhile, had settled down to his evening wine and book, complete with his favorite lap-sitter. He was halfway through the glass of wine when his mobile buzzed with an unrecognized number.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

"Morning, Sergeant, how was the rest of your weekend?" Lewis was finally feeling healthy, and getting his flat cleaned up put him in a good mood as well.

It was a sorry-looking creature that turned to look at him. Hathaway's nose looked sore, his eyes were red and watery, and he had to blow his nose before answering.

"Well, Sir, I've gained your cold and lost my cat. So, without reservation, I'd say the rest of the weekend sucked royally."

"Aw, James, I'm so sorry about Fiona. Her owner finally showed up?"

"She called me Saturday evening. She's in Kidlington so she never saw the signs. But a friend of hers who knew the cat was lost was in the City on Saturday. She saw one of the signs and took down my number. Of course I had to give her back." He blew his nose loudly, dug a cough drop out of his pocket, and popped it in his mouth.

"Maybe it was a bad idea to call her 'Fiona,'" Lewis said gently. "Tempting fate and all. Should have seen this coming."

Hathaway just stared glumly at his desk. "Yeah, I knew when I first brought her home that it was probably just for a short time. You know, Sir, I think you've finally succeeded in convincing me that predictability is not always a good thing."

"I thought you might see it that way. But I'm sorry your little encounter with chaos had to end so sadly. Would a pint after work cheer you up, or are you too sick to go spread some germs among the unsuspecting public? I'm buying."

"It would be sad, indeed, if I was too sick to take free beer from you, Sir. Or is that being too predictable?"

"Let's call it 'reliable.'" He took a moment to compose his most innocent-looking face. "So, Hathaway . . . should I book that stripper for your birthday after all?"

* * * * *


End file.
